


The Busy Griefs

by likeadeuce



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-17
Updated: 2010-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-07 08:18:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeadeuce/pseuds/likeadeuce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A week in the death of Jean Grey.</p><p>Post-X2, Ororo's viewpoint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Busy Griefs

1.

Someone has to fly the goddamn plane, and it takes about twenty seconds for Storm to realize that it's going to be her. Jean has just been buried under several tons of water; Scott is in no position to operate anything, Logan doesn't know how, the kids are just kids and, while the Professor is perfectly capable of running the Blackbird by himself, he has more urgent matters to attend to.

"I've got it," Storm says softly, putting a hand on Xavier's shoulder. "You go see about him." She doesn't have to say who she means, and it isn't because the Professor can read her mind. Most of the kids are bawling by now; Artie started it, when he understood, and the sound has rippled through them like a shockwave. The different pitches and frequencies of their cries mingle like birdsong or the tuning of a symphony. But the first note still sounds loudest, the shuddering animal sob that hurts because of the raw undisguised pain, and hurts again – hurts more – because it is Scott.

Storm settles in at the console and sets a course for Washington. Even in this jet that she loves like a favorite pet, that will take some time from the middle-of-nowhere Alberta. She double checks the flightplan against the FAA database, conjures up a favorable tailwind, and settles her chin on her hands, watching the clouds part before them.

The Blackbird, good old Blackbird.

Jean used to love it, too.

Storm would like to cry now, to stagger against the nearest warm body and grab it to her, only to feel pulse and blood and the warmth of tears.

She looks down and checks the readings again. Somebody has to fly the goddamn plane.

2

By Washington, Scott is better -- or rather, he's quiet. Presentable. He does his job. They all do.

When they get back to the jet, Storm takes the console again, and no one questions her right or duty. "Setting course back to Westchester?"

She's asking the Professor, but to her surprise it is Rogue who coughs a protest. "The only thing is. . .Mr. Sum -- , erm, Cyclops?" She sounds unsure whether she's talking to her history teacher or the leader of the X-men. He looks up at her and, faced with his visor, she quails and turns to Xavier. "His car's kind of still in Boston."

"Boston?" Scott repeats, in a low even voice. At this point, Storm can imagine him saying 'Mars'? with the same lack of expression. Then, just as calmly, "Logan, what the fu –" And, remembering the kids "--hell did you do?"

The accusation is both true and unfair. "He was saving our lives!" Rogue blurts, then immediately looks sorry for yelling at a man – her history teacher, the leader of the X-men – who has been sobbing for two hours straight.

He doesn't answer her, but looks at Storm. "Drop me in Boston. I'll drive down. The time alone might do me good."

"Scott –" Xavier begins, "making that drive by yourself at this point –".

Logan, who hasn't had 'Don't interrupt the Professor' imprinted since childhood, breaks in, "Look, if you want –"

Scott whirls on Logan. "What, you'll come with me? That's a great idea. We'll have a road trip. You could tell me stories about Jean."

For once, Logan backs off, spreading his hands. "I was just going to say, I'll drive it down for you."

Scott turns his back as though Logan isn't there. "I thought I'd stop in Middletown," he says to Xavier. "Talk to John and Elaine."

So much, Storm realizes, for being the one to think of everything while Scott falls apart. She has known the Greys for as long as Scott has; as students, she went down with Jean to meet them for weekends in the city, and spent scattered holidays at their Connecticut home.

They haven't crossed her mind once since Alkali Lake.

The Professor raises a hand to his forehead, and Storm realizes he has forgotten, too. "Of course, Scott. Of course, you are right. They need to be told. Although, in light of my history with Jean's family, I should accompany –"

"Professor," Scott interrupts – "With all due respect. Jean is part of your family." He stops and takes a breath before continuing, as though cutting off the Professor and contradicting him at once is too much. "Jean is. But you aren't part of hers. John and Elaine are the closest thing I have to parents, and I'm – I think it needs to just be me."

Rogue looks uneasily from Logan to Bobby. Kurt raises his wide trusting eyes to Storm, who he seems to have adopted as the authority on all things; even he, who has barely met the two men, seems to know that Scott Summers just doesn't talk to the Professor like that.

Xavier looks long and hard at Scott, who folds his hands behind his back, military parade-rest style, and returns the gaze. If she didn't know better, Storm would think they are trying to read each other's eyes. "Yes," Xavier says, at last, "I think that would be best."

"In other words," Scott answers flatly, "I pass the brainscan. You're convinced I'm not going to do anything crazy."

"Scott –"

"Don't worry, I'll come straight home like a good boy. Anyway –" Before going off to sit by himself, Scott presses a finger to his temple. " – It's not like you're going to lose track of me."

3

Storm is sitting on her bed, staring at a poster from the 1997 Newport Jazz Festival, when she hears Scott's car in the driveway. It's going on two AM, ten hours since they left him in Boston, and she has assumed he decided to stay with Jean's family. She's been refusing to worry about him; there's enough to worry about, and if anything is wrong with Scott, she's convinced herself that the professor will know.

Now she rebuttons her blouse – she sat down to undress an hour ago; she has no idea what happened to the time – and stumbles around the room for slippers before making her way groggily downstairs. She finds Scott in the foyer, looking around at the shattered glass and damaged furniture.

"What the hell happened here?"

"We got invaded."

"Hmmm." Scott kneels to look at an unmistakable blood stain on the carpet. He has changed out of his uniform at some point, into deck shoes and jeans a size too big, with a T-shirt that says "United States Air Force Academy." Storm bristles for a moment, thinking of the military pilots who almost shot the Blackbird down. Then she remembers Scott wasn't there, and probably hasn't been told. The shirt must belong to Jean's younger brother, who is currently stationed somewhere in South Carolina. Scott has called Danny Grey "Flyboy" since the kid was ten years old, and he was probably the only kid in America to be devastated at going through adolescence without manifesting a mutation. Jean always said that he joined the services to deal with the heartbreak of not being a potential X-man.

Storm decides that Scott doesn't need to know about the fighter planes. At least, not this week.

As he gets to his feet, she says, "If you think this is bad, you don't want to look in the kitchen. There's leftover pizza in the rec room, if you want something." You come home from the big battle with a plane full of grief-stunned teenagers, and it turns out they still need to eat.

Scott makes a face. "I'll pass. Elaine started baking as soon as --" He kicks an automatic shell-casing, and it rolls across the floor. "I'm not very hungry."

Storm swallows. "How was Connecticut?"

"I got a ticket. I-84 coming into Danbury." He stuffs hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. "I wasn't even going very fast. That damn car is some kind of cop magnet. I ought to --" He stoops to look at a broken lamp, and whatever he ought to do is lost.

"Sorry," Storm says, and then, stupidly, "Will it mess up your insurance?"

"No. That is –" he corrects, "I didn't get a ticket. I got pulled. I got pulled, and I'm looking up at this cop and he starts on, 'It's nighttime, what's with the shades?'"

"God, you didn't –"

"No. It's not that kind of story. I'm looking up at him, and I say – I don't think about it, the words go straight from my head to my mouth, and I say, 'My wife just died.'"

Storm knows Scott and Jean have talked about marriage – talked about it over and over, been stalled out for the last eight years at least. _I love you. . . Does it matter? . . .But your family. . .are we buying into a corrupt sociopolitical order?. . .Isn't it a positive message of faith in the future?. . .Maybe we should before they pass that law and they won't let us. . .But the expense. . .But my family. . ._ Not that Storm has actually heard the argument for a while, because she has taken to covering her hands with her ears and shouting "Vegas!" before walking out of the room, if either of them dare to bring it up. She has never met two people who can complicate a simple situation as much as Scott Summers and Jean Grey.

Storm looks at Scott now and says, "He just let you go?"

"Yeah. He breathalyzed me first, but I hadn't had anything. He didn't mention the glasses again, and then he just let me go. Not even a warning. Because – " Scott swallows, "well, who would lie about something like that?"

He starts to turn away, and Storm puts a hand on his shoulder. "You didn't lie."

"She wasn't my wife. That's not something you just slip up and say."

"You loved her, Scott. What difference does it make?"

"Obviously, something, or I wouldn't have said it." Storm wonders is this is what he's been thinking about, all the way down from Connecticut. Finally, he shrugs, "Maybe I just didn't feel like explaining me and Jean to some moron state trooper who couldn't get off the night shift."

"Scott –" Storm pulls him into a hug. For some reason, she expects him to wriggle away, like an embarrassed child might, but instead he pulls her closer, letting her feel the tight, controlled muscles in his arms and chest. He doesn't make a sound. She remembers the way he staggered into Logan, and the keening sobs; she realizes that she still hasn't cried, not really, and wonders whether it's finally her turn.

But it's too late, or it's too early. She has to think about getting this wreck cleaned up, putting the kids back into some kind of routine, finding a way to have a funeral when they don't even have a body. And doing it all without the one person she instinctively wants to call on for help.

Storm hopes that Scott doesn't hate her because she isn't ready to cry.

4

They never search for a body.

"Considering the force of the water," Xavier says quietly, "the effect would be analogous to an explosion. What they might find –"

"No." Scott is looking out of the window of the Professor's office, hands jammed in his pockets.

"Burial at sea," says Logan.

Scott's head jerks to look at him. Storm braces for another confrontation, but Scott just nods. She realizes that he is not, for once, angry at Logan's presumption, but surprised that they are thinking on the same lines. "Indeed," answers Xavier, "that does seem quite fitting." And now the three are in accord.

'Burial at sea' isn't an intuitive comparison, for Storm, but maybe it all makes sense because they are men, or because they are the kind of men who loved Jean. She does remember Jean saying once -- in the lazy and purely theoretical mode of teenagers who assume they will live forever, on an afternoon where they were all high, even Scott -- that she would want her ashes scattered from the Blackbird. That seems close enough to what occurred for Storm to believe that Jean chose her end, in more ways than one.

"I'll start making calls, then," says Storm.

Xavier nods, and she moves to go. The other three don't follow, as though they have things to say, not in front of her. Men bound, in spite of differences, in a brotherhood of grief.

Truthfully, Storm is happy to leave.

5

The mansion is, as Scott observed the first night, an incredible mess.

There is no question, he is grateful. It is something to clean, something to fix, and it is not at all personal. He wasn't there; neither was Jean. Evidence of invasion is disturbing, of course, but Stryker is dead. The President is embarrassed and has even offered guardsmen to help with the recovery process.

The Professor, understandably, has refused.

Now Scott is supervising the cleanup, with Colossus and a disconcertingly helpful Logan to aid in the heavy lifting. (After the first day, even Scott has stopped asking why Logan is still here).

Rogue and Bobby work with little Jones, putting together a video from old film club footage of Jean. (No one mentions that John took most of it; no one mentions John at all.) Storm asks for a student to find appropriate readings for the memorial service, and Kitty offers; honestly, Storm had hoped for Rogue – who, when privately forced to admit to the preferences teachers weren't supposed to have, Jean would name as a special favorite. But the girl seems shy and shattered enough and Kitty – Storm's own secret pet – clearly needs to keep as busy as she can. Storm can understand that.

The phone calls, then, are left to Ms. Ororo Munroe – the name she gives to dozens of secretaries and answering services before ten AM. (She works through the files alphabetically; wonders whether a man like Stryker knew how many of Xavier's alumni were out there, fully integrated, successful). If she gets someone directly on the line, she says, "It's Storm. I have some news."

Xavier's alumni are integrated, successful, and still heavily networked – before she gets through the B's, the calls are coming in instead of going out; someone got a call from someone else, but everyone needs to hear it for themselves. From Storm. By lunchtime, she can't count the number of times she has said it. "Jean Grey is dead."

Storm knows she ought to eat, but she feels like a full-body workout first – lats, quads, delts, pecs, abs, the numbing rhythm of repetition. She decides to head for the weight room, half-certain she'll run into Scott. Endorphins are his drug of choice, too. They've always had that in common.

Before she can get out the door, though, the phone rings and she takes it by instinct.

It's Silas McGill -- Bluenote to his friends from the school, maybe something to Storm that she hasn't felt like thinking about. "Sweetheart?" says Silas. "I just heard it from Dazzler. Why didn't you call me?"

"You're in the M's," she answers, flatly and, knowing she'll have to do better that, "You're touring. I didn't know where to find you." Then, directly, contradicting herself, she asks, "Won't you be in Sydney next Thursday?" She knows he will -- playing the opera house with B. B. King and half the lineup of U2.

"Fuck that," he says, "I'll reschedule."

"Don't!" she says, more sharply than she intends, then gently. "You don't need to. You shouldn't. Your profile's so high, it'll be all over the news –"

"Well, shouldn't it be?" he retorts. "The government is kidnapping mutants – children! -- trying to paint us as terrorists –"

"Where'd you hear that?" she demands.

" -- a good woman ends up dead, and we're not supposed to talk about it?"

"Silas, you can't go around saying –"

"We're damn lucky it was just _one_ of us. Next time –"

"It's not that simple!" Storm snaps -- doubly angry because he's saying what she has wanted to, but held back. "Our priority has to be the safety of these students."

There is silence at the other end, and then a low angry laugh that sounds like a string bass. When Silas gets worked up, his voice can start to come out as music. "So that's how it works. Charles Xavier decides what _our_ priorities are, and if I disagree, it means I'm against the children."

"Don't be a shit. You know that's not what I'm saying. But I don't want Jean's death to turn into some kind of political event. And I don't want her memorial to be a media circus."

"So you're telling me not to come to my friend's funeral."

Storm breathes deeply. "No. I'm not. If the reason you really need to be here is because of Jean? Don't let any power in the universe stop you. But if this is about politics. . . or if, God help us, you think I need some kind of shoulder to cry on –"

"No." He laughs again, and this time, he sounds like an oboe, jaunty and ironic. "No, Rory, I almost forgot. You never need anything."

6

Storm has never seen so many pies in her life.

Jean's mother comes in with a trayload of them, and, just when Storm is wondering where the hell they are going to put more food, her father and brother follow with trays of their own.

She thanks them – glad the mindreading doesn't run in the family – and lets Elaine pull her into a hug.

"It's so good to see you, dear." Storm tries to smile. John nods at the Storm, glances at the pies, and shrugs. Danny, immaculate in his black dress uniform, offers her a gloved hand.

"Hey, Flyboy. Look who's all grown up."

Scott steps through the doorway, and Jean's brother abandons his dignified reserve to clasp him tightly. They pound each other's backs – as though the violence of the contact makes up for the display of naked emotion – and then Scott moves to hug each of Jean's parents in turn.

"Scotty, Scotty," Elaine murmurs.

Storm can see him clench his jaw, but he lets her hold him until she's ready to let go.

"So, are we ready to do this?" he asks. For that instant, he's very much 'Cyclops,' in spite of his most conservative shades, and the dark coat and tie. He lets the Greys walk ahead, hanging back a little to whisper to Storm. "After this is over, we better get to work on freezing this shit, and we can give out prize pastries for the next two years."

In spite of everything, she smiles. "Are _you_ ready?"

He squeezes the rolled-up paper in his right hand. "I better be. I spent two hours in the Danger Room this morning, and I'm pretty sure I blasted my tear ducts dry." Stepping forward, Scott Summers gives his best Cyclops smile. "Here's hoping it worked."

7

Storm hardly has to do anything during the ceremony. She walks to the podium, looks over the garden, and welcomes the assembled crowd. It is, indeed, a crowd, but they all expected no less for Jean. The sun is setting over the treetops, and there's a pinch of autumn in the air, but they could never get all these people inside.

Xavier speaks first. He talks about King Arthur, knights and quests. His voice, as always, is mesmerizing, allowing Storm's mind to skim over the top of his meaning. Whatever reservations Scott has about crying in front of this throng, Xavier has none, and his tears flow freely.

Next, Storm introduces Bobby and Jones, who run the film of Jean (Rogue stays in her seat, three rows back, between Bobby's empty chair and Logan); it's nicely done and, to Storm's relief, it isn't soundtracked with some ill-advised pop song. Instead, the speakers play instrumental jazz, which -- she quickly realizes – comes from the famous recording of Silas's performance at Newport in 1997. Wynton Marsalis was on the trumpet, with Silas on the piano, that time. Silas could play everything, and he didn't even strictly need an instrument, but Jean had been fondest of his piano.

Many of the crowd assembled here had been at the show that night. Jean had just finished her residency and agreed to come back to Xavier's fulltime, to move in with Scott – again and for good. For that entire night – in spite of the crowd, of Storm, of Scott's usual reserve – they hardly took their hands off each other. Storm remembers wriggling with happiness for Silas, turning to mouth "That's my guy!" and watching Jean lean back against Scott's chest as his arms joins around her waist. She remembers their distant, indulgent smiles, ready to accept her happiness, but not really to believe in it, or in anything besides the two of them, because there was nothing else that they could possibly need.

Bobby and Rogue can't have known the record's history. She wonders if someone told them – Scott, or Hank, or Silas himself, getting ready to mount his stage on the other side of the world, sneaking his presence in, by a phone call and some pointed hints. Storm can't exactly blame him. She should have thought of it herself.

The film ends, and Kitty rises next, to read the poem she has chosen, and signal the service was almost over. Storm briefly contemplated opening the microphone to anyone who wants to speak, but considering the size of the crowd, she decided to wait until the less formal reception. People can eat and drink, and be more comfortable, anyway. Kitty smiles politely, smooths down her wind-rumpled hair and begins.

"Try to praise the mutilated world –" she reads. It's a contemporary poem the last one on the last page of the students' new textbook. Probably not what the Professor would have chosen, but Storm sees him nodding along. Kitty was in the mansion on the night of the attack; she managed to run away, but she had nowhere to go, hiding up the street the train station, and sneaking back, once the mansion was empty. Finally, she had gotten in touch with Hank McCoy by phone, but by then it was too late. _I should have let them take me,_ she has said, a dozen times in Storm's presence. _Once we got inside, I could have helped._ _We all think we could have done more,_ Storm answered. And then they both went back to work.

Kitty finishes her reading. ". . . the gentle light that strays and vanishes and returns." She coughs, mumbles, "Thanks," and, although she's supposed to wait for Storm to announce it, "now I think Mr. Summers. . ."

All heads turn to Scott, who rises slowly to his feet. He passes Kitty, on her way down, pats her shoulder, and looks vaguely surprised when her flesh stays solid. He gets to the microphone, and says, "Thanks, Kitty." Then he opens the paper he's been clutching in one hand, tries to smooth it down, gives up, and looks at the audience. "Wow. Some of you I haven't seen in –" He makes one last attempt to straighten the paper, then lets it crumble. "Well, if you haven't been here in a while, you probably don't know our Shadowcat. That is, Kitty. Katherine Pryde. She's one of our star pupils. Really, just – an amazing mind, one of the many reasons that I feel privileged to be affiliated –"

Scott stops, bites his lip, and looks above them all, to the edge of the surrounding trees. Storm wonders, for an instant, whether he's trying to gauge the range of a possible blast. "Oh, hell," he says softly. When he looks down again, his voice is steady and confident, as though he is picking up in the middle of a different speech. "Little-known fact. Kitty Pryde is not only at the top of her class in history, philosophy, and advanced math. She is the only student here who has been accused, from the floor of the U.S. Senate, of planning to rob banks."

"Go, Cat!" whoops one of the boys. Storm is about to turn around and fix him with an appropriate glare, except that Scott half-laughs himself.

"Seriously, you all should get to know this kid," Scott goes on, then leans closer to the microphone and lowers his voice into what they all used to call his "hall monitor" tone. "Not you, Le Beau."

A Cajun-inflected voice from the crowd protests, "Hell did _I_ do?"

"I saw that look," Scott volleys back. "Seriously, man, she's sixteen."

"And a half!" pipes a girl's voice; Jubilee, Storm suspects – some people laugh along -- but now that Scott is smiling, she doesn't care.

He steps back, raises a hand to his forehead, and mumbles, "Damn. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't make people laugh, at least – not on purpose." This, of course, gets more laughs. "All right, all right." Scott clears his throat and glances down at the rumpled paper. "I wanted to end here with a poem. Like Kitty. Part of a poem. It's by Tennyson and – well, those of us with the benefit of a Charles Xavier education know a little bit about Tennyson –"

He looks back toward the professor, who smiles. "Indeed."

_To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield?_ thinks Storm, instinctively. She's more at home with Rimbaud, or with Langston Hughes.

"Anyway, I was thinking about this because Jean liked it." Well, Storm thinks, one lie per eulogy; there's probably a quota. She glances at Hank, who meets her eyes and nods, because he knows better too. Scott opens his mouth, then looks around the crowd, and shakes his head. "Oh, hell. Jean didn' t like it. In fact – I'm sorry to tell you this, Professor. Jean rather famously – I guess the word might be 'notoriously' – during spring reading days in junior year – she stood up –" Scott backs away from the microphone and spreads his hands as though blocking the scene " – on her desk. And she said – direct quote – 'I will cut off my right arm if we never have to read any more blank blank Victorians.'" Laughter and several whoops rise from the crowd. "Am I right?"

"Left!" calls Hank.

"Left?" Scott repeats.

Storm joins several others in crying "Left!"

"Oh. Sorry." Scott turns to the microphone and corrects, "She threatened to cut off her left arm. Over Tennyson." He coughs. "Professor, I'm not sure if you realized –"

"I had no idea," Xavier answers, grave but smiling.

"Now think about that," Scott addresses the crowd. "Greatest telepathic mind of our time, and he never realized –" His voice catches, and he enunciates the next three words clearly. "That's -- my -- girl. And yet we trust --" Scott looks down and when he starts to speak again, it takes a moment to realize that he has gone straight into his recitation. "—that somehow good will be the final goal of ill. . .That not a worm is cloven in vain. That not a moth with vain desire –" His words gather strength and speed as he speaks "—is shriveled in a fruitless fire, or but – " He chokes a little but, by now ,everyone is completely still, and quiet, until he picks up "— or but subserves another's gain. I can but trust that good shall fall. At last. Far off. At last. To all. And every winter change to spring. So runs my dream." He looks up at the trees again and only the buzz of crickets breaks the silence, until he continues. "So runs my dream, but what am I? An infant crying in the night. An infant crying for the light. And with no language -- with no language but the cry."* Scott turns his back on the podium, bends down, and crushes the paper in his hand.

He hasn't looked at it once.

8

Scott puts his arm on Storm's shoulder and speaks in her ear: "Do I know how to close down a room or what?"

Storm looks around the foyer at the contrary evidence. The service has been over for two hours, it is past bedtime for most of the students, but hardly anyone has left, or shown signs of wanting to. "What you said was perfect," Storm answers. "I mean –"

"I know what you mean. And as for perfect, you –" He steps back to look her in the eye; she has known him long enough to tell when he's doing that, even behind the glasses. "—You really pulled all this together. All these people. Amazing. And – oh God, the music, was that your idea?"

"Yes," Storm says, and doesn't correct herself when she remembers it's a lie.

"That was brilliant. That day in Newport. Jesus." He frowns. "Where's Si, anyway?"

"Sydney."

"Oh. Right. With Bono. He was supposed to get an autograph for –" Scott swallows. "Well, for me, honestly. Though what I really want is a picture without the glasses on."

"You'd just cry 'PhotoShop,'" she answers and, before he can protest, "If Bono was a mutant, he would have said it on the cover of _People_ by now."

"I can see the headline. 'Yep, I'm a freak of nature.'" He gives a thin smile and looks at his watch. "We should get these kids off to bed. Logan's probably already gotten into the beer."

The accusation seems unjust. Logan is actually standing behind Kitty, Rogue, and Bobby, as they awkwardly chat with Jean's parents and brother.

"Your reading was so lovely, dear," Elaine is saying, as Scott and Storm approach.

Kitty, usually not the most modest or retiring of the students, dips her head and shrugs. "You know. I got it out of a book. Rogue and Bobby did all that work on the movie."

"Goodness, are you Rogue?" Elaine turns to the girl, who stiffly offers a gloved hand; Elaine does not try to hug her. "Jean talks so much about you. Such a good student, so helpful."

Rogue stammers, "Thank you. Miss Grey was my favorite –" She chokes then recovers to say, "Are you sure you don't have me mixed up with Kitty?"

"Oh stop," says Kitty, and to Elaine, adds, "Everybody knows how awesome Rogue is except Rogue." She playfully swats at the other girl's shoulder, letting her hand phase at the last second to pass through. Storm has seen this before, and notices once again that Rogue likes the trick a lot less than Kitty does. She decides to mention it to Kitty – later.

At this moment, Danny Grey is gawking. "Holy crap!" He reaches his hand out to Kitty. "Can I?"

"Sure."

He tries to touch her, but her outline blinks and the hand passes through her arm. Despite his lean soldier's face and sharp dress uniform, Danny's eyes light up in childish wonder as he pronounces, "That is the coolest thing I have ever seen."

"Flyboy's got a new hero," Scott says. "It's official. I can retire." With a glance at the three students, he adds, "Speaking of retire –"

Before Scott can finish, John Grey reaches past him to offer a hand to Logan. "I'm sorry, I keep seeing you, but I don't think we've met."

"My name's Logan."

"Yes, of course. Mister Logan." Jean's mother extends a hand politely, but the name clearly means nothing to her.

"We sometimes call him Wolverine," Rogue interjects.

Elaine looks curiously at his hair, seems to decide that explains the name, and asks, "Do you work here at the school?"

Scott inclines his head, and settles his gaze on Logan. Storm knows that his shielded eyes can have an unsettling effect, even when you're used to it. She has a sudden feeling that Scott's carefully preserved control might not survive listening to Logan talk about Jean to her parents. "Just passing through. I'm a friend –" Logan begins. He pauses and – whether from self-preservation, or some previously unsuspected sense of tact, finishes – "a friend of Rogue's."

Scott's jaw relaxes. More stiff pleasantries follow, and when the students turn for their exit, Logan follows. Apparently, though, the sum total of tact between Logan and Rogue can never equal more than zero, because the girl's voice travels back. "Great, Logan. Now Jean's folks think you're my pervy cradle-robbing boyfriend."

"What?" demands Logan, at the same time Bobby yelps, "Hey!"

Scott starts to cough, furiously. His hand flies to his mouth, and in a second he's bent over. Storm and Danny both rush to him, but he holds them off. "Okay," he gasps, I'm okay, just –" Quietly, he says, "That's the best thing I've heard all day." From close up, Storm can see that he's laughing, and that his cheeks are covered with tears. He wipes the water away then looks down at his wet finger. "Huh. Guess they're working again. That probably means it's time to drink."

Logan has stopped, a few feet away; he looks over his shoulder, but doesn't move to join them. When Scott seems all right, he turns his back again.

Elaine, clearly puzzled by everything that's just happened, asks Scott, "Who _is_ that?"

"Just some guy," Scott answers, still drying his cheeks. "Doesn't matter at all."

9

When the students go to bed, the alcohol comes out. Scott stops to tell Storm that Jean's parents are going back to their hotel, while he and Danny are taking a six-pack to "get sloppy drunk" somewhere more private. Storm thinks there's an implied invitation to join them but she ignores it. She doesn't blame him for wanting to let things slide, after the week they've had, but she isn't ready to do it herself. _Someone has to fly the goddamned plane_ flashes back into her mind.

Once Scott slips out, Storm makes a round of the room, marveling at all of the old faces. Funerals, she reflects, are the class reunions no one wants to come to – yet we can't stand to leave. The only thing that might have brought more of Xavier's old denizens together would have been if Scott and Jean had been able to take a break from their angsting and but-what-ifs long enough to actually tie the knot. Though maybe even then –

She reaches her hand into the cooler to pick up a bottle, but someone has already placed one in her hand. "Have a Molson's. None of that American crap."

"Logan." Storm smiles as he extends a claw far enough to flick off the cap. "Nice party trick."

He shrugs. "I got nothin' on controlling tornadoes and shit but –"

"It's a little hard to show off inside," Storm admits. She takes a sip and glances back into the main room. By now, people have grouped off into their own corners and cliques. Storm has already greeted everyone and now she feels entitled to pull back. She's heard too many people trying to make business deals or dates, and it makes sense – most of them haven't seen each other in ages – but at the moment she would rather be alone.

Or with Logan, which feels like the same thing. He looks over her shoulder, out into the room, and then they both pull back into the kitchen. "You know all those people?" he asks.

"Most," she says. "A few new spouses, new kids, but more or less –"

He whistles. "I'm not even sure I've ever _seen_ that many people. Much less know their names." She has no idea whether he thinks this is good or bad. She wonders if he does. "The Professor said you pulled this altogether."

"Everybody helped."

"We all helped but – you secretly run this place, don't you?"

Storm raises an eyebrow. "I didn't realize it was secret." She steps closer and clinks her bottle against his. "You've been a great help, too. I know you didn't have to stay –"

"Where else am I gonna go?"

"That won't work," she answers. "Everyone has choices. I think you secretly like being one of the good guys."

He takes a long drink, looks at the floor, then raises his eyes to her. They're yellow eyes, flecked with green, and she realizes that she's gotten so used to talking to Scott, she's forgotten how much eyes can express. "That was one of the last things I remember saying to her. 'I can be the good guy.'"

"More information would probably ruin that moment a little," Storm guesses. She can pretty much imagine the conversation, can even guess when it was – Jean walking back into the jet. _How's Logan?_ _Don't ask._

"Yeah. It wasn't an example of my best behavior." He takes another swig. "Speaking of which, I now have proof that I actually am the guy that girls don't write home about. I can't decide whether I like that or not."

"Technically, we were treating any information about you as top secret."

"Hmm." He shakes his head. "Scott's right. It doesn't matter."

"He didn't mean that. He shouldn't have said it."

"'Shouldn't have said' and 'didn't mean' are different things." Logan smiles. "You're talking to a guy who knows. But he is right. All these people, everybody – You're part of something. You all grew up together. I never really appreciated that until I heard him –" He stops, drinks. "Now all that stuff about poems and study halls, or whatever, I didn't really follow that. I'm not much of a reader."

"Jean wasn't either," Storm admits. "Even science – you'd give her a book for five minutes, and she would rather be in the lab, trying it for herself."

Logan wrinkles his nose. "She really did like to poke and prod a guy." When Storm raises her eyebrows, he amends, "All in the name of science, of course. But listening to Summers, and the professor, I really did wish I'd done more reading. Last time I felt that way – Well, all right –" A flick of the eyes, that crooked grin, and suddenly he's flirting with her. He doesn't mean anything by it, she's fairly sure. This is just Logan's way of being in the world, and after this week, it comes as a blessed relief. "So I'm in this hole-in-the-wall pub in Saskatchewan, and there's some co-ed –"

"Co-ed? Was this in 1972."

"It might have been," he breezes. "Well, some college girl – blonde, but she says she just got back from a semester in India. She starts telling me about the Eastern spiritual outlook, and meditation, and I'm sort of going with it. And then it comes up that she's got a copy of the _Kama Sutra_ back in her room, and do I want to come study it with her?"

He meets her eyes. _Don't encourage him_, thinks Storm. She manages to keep a straight face as she takes another drink. Then she gives up, and encourages him. "And --?"

"And I think she's trying to convert me into some cult with, whatever. Vows of silence and herbal tea. I make some excuse, and I get out of there." He shrugs elaborately, and finishes his beer, then heads to the fridge for two more. "Apparently, she was talking about sex. I didn't figure that out until a lot later."

Storm answers gravely. "It was her loss."

"Obviously." He uncaps both bottles, and hands her one. They clink together, and Logan says, "Still. I should read more." Then he looks past Storm and raises his bottle. "Hey, Professor."

"Logan. Ororo." Charles Xavier navigates into the kitchen.

Storm bends to hug him and says, sympathetically, "Need to get away from the crowd?"

Logan kicks the door shut behind them, and raises his Molson. "Need some real beer."

"No thank you," he answers Logan, almost managing to hide a look of distaste, then smiles at Storm. "I was looking for you." Logan starts to step away, and Xavier corrects, "Both of you. I am about to turn in, and I wanted to thank you both --"

Logan opens his mouth, probably to say it's nothing, but a look from Xavier stops him. It's possible, Storm thinks, that 'Don't interrupt the Professor' will get through to him yet.

" – for all the work you've done." He gives Logan a look that says_Yes, you may speak now._

"I'm just some guy. Doing what I can. It doesn't mean I'm –" Xavier's eyes meet his, and then Logan shrugs. "I haven't decided anything yet." He looks at the floor now and says, "Nice talk. I didn't follow all of the King Arthur stuff, but – it makes me think I oughta read more. I was just telling Storm about this time –"

"I know what you were just telling Storm, Logan, and thank you."

Logan grins faintly, slouches against the counter and says, as though it's just a passing thought, "How's Scott, then?"

"Oh," Storm says, "He went off with Danny – Jean's brother. Said they needed space."

"Oh," Logan looks up, surprised. Storm wonders if he's been imagining that it would be him and Scott, together with beers at the end of the day.

It takes her a second to realize that Xavier is surprised as well. In his expectations, the day must end with Scott in his office, solemnly absorbing words of wisdom. "Of course, it is natural," Xavier recovers, "for Scott to become – for a lack of a better word – jealous in his grief. He may become reluctant to share his loss with others."

Storm remembers Scott on the jet, almost daring Xavier to claim Jean as part of his family. "Even if it's you," she says.

"Or me," says Logan.

The others both stare at him, until Xavier corrects, "_Even_ if it's me. Especially if it's you."

"Hmm." Logan looks down at his bottle. "You can tell that from reading his mind?"

Storm assumes this is a joke, but Logan looks quite serious, and she has to remember how much of what she takes for granted is new to him.

The professor fights back a smile as he says, "That certainly would be one approach. But even if it were ethical to read Scott's mind and share the results with the rest of you –" Storm can't quite figure out whether it's the reading or the sharing that Xavier is refusing to do " – it isn't necessary. I have known Scott for a very long time. Since he was a boy." Now he looks at Logan. "If you don't mind, I believe I will have one of those beverages." When Logan goes to pop the top, he adds, "In a glass."

In the wake of today's horde, a red plastic cup is the best he can come up with. He pours it with obvious distaste, but hardly any foam, and hands it to Storm, who hands it to Xavier.

"I have been thinking," the Professor says, "about the poem Scott chose. In light of the story of Tennyson's life, which Scott surely knows – if only in the back of his mind -- the selection seems to possess a certain significance." Xavier stops, as though expecting them to fill in the blanks.

"I think I need to phone a friend, Regis," says Logan. "I know this really smart lady who teaches high school."

"I teach French," Storm mumbles, but she has logged enough hours in a Charles Xavier classroom to know she won't be getting away with that. "Well, Tennyson had a friend who died when they were both young. He wrote a poem about his grief -- how he worked it all out. 'Better to have loved and lost'."

"In a way," answers Xavier. "Yet it took him seventeen years to write that poem. To – as you say – work it out. Tennyson lived to be an old man – loved, respected, honored. Wealthy. He had success in every sense that the world could offer. Yet many would say that this early grief – the sense of loss – flowed through everything that he wrote. He may indeed have worked through his grief, but when he was finished – he was a different man." Xavier smiles. "In the days of those, to steal a phrase from Jean, blank blank Victorians, people believed that one could know a man's character from the shape of his face. Not so different, perhaps, from those who want to judge us by the map of our genes. Today we know that a face tells us very little, and yet – forgive me for this, Logan – scars can tell us a good deal."

Logan's mouth twitches. "Maybe that's why I'm so mysterious."

"Huh," Storm coughs out. Logan looks at her and she says, "Must have been something caught in my throat."

They're all quiet for a moment, and then Logan says, "The thing about a scar is, you don't know what it's going to look like right away. Whether it's going to take."

"Yes," says the Professor. "The thought I had today, listening to Scott speak, is that none of us will be the same. But we can't see, yet, how these things will change us. We may tell ourselves that life happens one day at a time. That the only thing which matters –" He gives a pointed look to Storm. " – is keeping the plane in the air."

_The god-damned plane,_ Storm thinks, and decides that the Professor is simply too polite to say it.

"Yet days will pile on days," the Professor continues. "And such an approach carries its own dangers."

"Yeah," Logan grunts. "Like waking up fifteen years from now with no idea what happened to all those days. Poor bastard." He chugs his drink, then adds, "Don't tell him I said that."

"So, you think that's what Scott was trying to tell us?" Storm asks. "That it's not just about today but –" Now she's thinking 'tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.' But that's Shakespeare, not Tennyson, and she's not sure she wants to get the Professor started on another analogy.

"Perhaps only unconsciously," Xavier agrees.

"Huh," says Logan, with the air of a man who doesn't want to believe in the unconscious mind, and is vaguely annoyed by all the experiences that tell him differently. "Well, if that's what Scott was trying to say, it isn't exactly comforting."

"No," says Xavier. "No, it's not. And I'm not at all sure that he wanted it to be."

**Author's Note:**

> Poetry quotations are from "Try to praise the mutilated world" by Adam Zagajewski (Kitty) and "In Memoriam A.H.H." by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (Scott)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [What To Do (The Busy Griefs Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/819600) by [scribblemyname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblemyname/pseuds/scribblemyname)




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